


This House

by Mersayde



Series: Ghastly Antiques [1]
Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationship, F/M, implied suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mersayde/pseuds/Mersayde
Summary: What people become in their emptiness.Written: 3/24/15





	This House

The woman he loved shared this house with him. To him, she is the spark that roughly ignites a fire, where the god’s hands first touched flesh and where his heart first felt pain. 

“Love? Why would I ever?" She would say, confusion and disgust written on her face. The helplessly naive being he was, thought that he could change her. He thought that she would learn to love him, how he forced himself to love her.

He remembers the day they crossed the old, rustic threshold of their new house. It was beautiful to him, but broken to her, much like them actually. He remembers this house, its loud creaks and peeling paint, its old trees and fleeting youth, its gray skies and crying eyes. Or maybe that was him. It became hard to tell the difference between the sound of her screams and the pained shrieks from his throat.

That day, in this house when she destroyed everything they owned and everything she touched, he cried. She packed her bags and left; without a final glance, without any hesitation as she crossed the decrepit threshold for the last time. Maybe he was meant to live alone in this house. Maybe it was meant for him. 

This house slowly became too painful to stand in, to breathe in. As every screech in the floor reminded him of her laugh, the broken windows reminded him of her spirit. Even sitting in their, excuse me, his chair he can still see her, smell her. Long gazes at the dirty white ceilings. Chipped paint reminding him of the depression that has crept up on him like a shadow. 

Is it normal, to still remember all the jokes and heartfelt laughs? All the dry cakes and disastrous dinners they used to make? To remember the way he kissed her and how she would kiss him? Or how her gentle touch sent chills down his spine? He did remember and he wishes he couldn’t. He tried to pick up her shards of infested glass and was only cut in the process. And rightfully so; he had no business messing with broken things. 

On the nights where he finds himself able to breathe, he leaves this house and ventures off to look up in the dark, hazy sky and he can see her dancing. Her laughter echoing in his ears. Those memories, this house, this aching darkness, is nothing but a slow death. 

This house has become the brutal embodiment of this man. As this house changed, so did he. The trees fell in correspondence with his dying soul. The flowers withered away as did his smile. The sky turned dead like the bounce in his step. Paint chipped away as his hope for her love did. This house represented this pathetic man. This house is pain. This house is depression. This house is a blanket of emotions and painful truths that he cannot fathom to swallow. This house is everything he never wanted it to be.

This house was fruitful and forgiving, but painfully turned into a labyrinth of deceitful lives. Maybe in its abandoned state, someone will find beauty in it. Maybe it’ll become a muse and fulfill a purpose. One it could never fulfill for him.

"Don't look so ashamed." The man said, sorrow deep within his voice. "Nothing that happened was your fault, nothing that's going to happen is your fault. It just never was-” He stopped, realizing that he was talking to a house that would never talk back. 

He turned and walked and walked and walked, until his feet blistered and bruised with warm colors. He reached his destination, the train tracks. The deafening howls of the wind was the only thing accompanying him on his darkest night. The tracks trembled violently and his heart stopped; he knew what awaited him. On that night he drowned in that moment, nothing to leave behind except broken memories and dying eyes. On that night he shed his sorrow in his tears. 

That night he became the one thing he feared the most as the house he used to love, watched.

**Author's Note:**

> Funny story: this narrative originally was something I wrote for a standardized test. We were given a prompt (a poem about a painting of a house. Should I link it?) and the instructions told us to write our own narrative from it, I fell in love with what I wrote and tried to recreate it months later. so here we are. 
> 
> Comments? Kudos? Fave parts?


End file.
